


Prophesies in Cynic's Robes

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Existential Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:57:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: “If you’ve come here to shout or to lecture me about the shallowness of my loyalty to the cause, please do it quickly. We both know that you have little time to spare in teaching Diogenes the merits of belief. I’m not worth that.” He breaks off with a sharp breath, forcing himself into silence before his voice cracks, before Enjolras sees through to the full extent of his fear.Enjolras finds Grantaire alone in the Musain beore the final battle.





	Prophesies in Cynic's Robes

**Author's Note:**

> This is *technically* a missing scene from the latest episode of BBC Les Mis (which I have a lot of feelings about - mainly that it's mostly awful, but Turlough Convery's Grantaire gives me beautiful sad feeings) but most of this is attempts at Brick characterisation so it's not really BBC-related at all.

He wakes with a start. 

Silence hits him with all the force of a gunshot and Grantaire, who by now is no stranger to the cries of men or the smell of gunpowder thickening the air, has to stop himself from flinching at its suddenness. For a moment, his ears ring with the lack of sound as his dreams fade into the haze of wakefulness: screams of the injured, the clatter of men clambering up towards the barricade, his own heavy breathing. He feels strangely as if he is still standing there, still feeling the makeshift structure shift beneath his unsteady feet, yet the hours old memories sit just out of reach in his mind, tinged in red and hidden behind screams, making him doubt their reality all together.

It’s possible he’s still drunk.

He lets his head fall back against the wall behind him with a soft thump, and the world spins dangerously. He’s definitely drunk. His back hurts from scant hours of uneasy sleep curled into a corner of the Musain. It can’t have been long since he planned to drink himself into unconsciousness. But despite the stiffness in his shoulders and the dull ache pulsing at his temples, he can’t bring himself to move, to stand and stretch his arms over his head as if he’s preparing to reach for a gun again.

And even in his dreams, the gun had felt too heavy in his hands. Warm and metallic, glinting in the early June sun, it was something like poetry. But there is nothing poetic about men dying for a cause already lost, about a girl sacrificing herself for a man who already claimed to seek death, or a man who looks like a god leading the charge to die a mortal death. It is a kind of irony so bitter that even Homer and Virgil would have choked on its taste.

He wraps an arm around his knees, hunching further into himself. Wishes he could fall back into a semblance of sleep, if only to block out the now deafening silence. It scares him now almost more than the screams had. At least screams meant they were still there, still alive, that Enjolras was still shouting doomed orders, waving his injured hand like a flag, or a beacon of weakness.

“Grantaire.” He hasn’t heard footsteps approach, and for all his fear of silence, he starts at the sound of his own name. He opens his eyes and squints up. And of course, it is Enjolras, looking fierce and windswept as if he has only just come in from the heat of battle, his injured hand held loosely in the other across his chest, as if he’s still standing at attention. His pale eyebrows crease in a small concerned frown. “Are you hurt?”

Grantaire looks away again, the taste of shame heavy in his throat. 

“Leave me,” his voice is hoarse from wine and disuse, “There’s no need for you to concern yourself with my lack of constitution.” He spits out the last word with an anger that he’s sure must stem from the depths of his own cowardice. Enjolras will never know how wrong it is to stand before him with that concerned look on his face when Grantaire is too afraid to face his own dreams, never mind the horrors of Enjolras’s entire war.

Enjolras takes a step towards him. “Come on, you are needed outside.”

There’s an empty bottle still leaning against his leg where it must have fallen in his sleep, and he picks it up, absently wrapping his hand around it in an attempt to hold onto something. Enjolras’s frown deepens.

“Are you drunk?”

The scrutiny is already too much.

“If you’ve come here to shout or to lecture me about the shallowness of my loyalty to the cause, please do it quickly. We both know that you have little time to spare in teaching Diogenes the merits of belief. I’m not worth that.” He breaks off with a sharp breath, forcing himself into silence before his voice cracks, before Enjolras sees through to the full extent of his fear.

For a moment the words hang heavy between them, Grantaire staring down at the patch of floor between his knees, trying desperately to calm his unsteady breathing. Then Enjolras moves, closing the small distance between them and sliding down the wall to sit beside him. Their shoulders brush together as he settles and Grantaire nearly flinches at his closeness.

“I’m not here to shout at you.” Enjolras’s voice is surprisingly soft in their proximity and something about it makes Grantaire desperate to look at him, to see the soft curve of his jaw and the sharpness of his cheekbones, to take in all of his splendor while he still can.

Enjolras is already turned towards him and meets his gaze with his customary fierceness, now tinged with exhaustion, though Grantaire knows he would never admit it. Enjolras’s eyes are deep and sincere in the dim light, and he is struck with the need to tell Enjolras everything. Every time he closes his eyes, Grantaire sees him dead, soaked in blood at the base of their barricade funeral pyre, the voice that whispers truths like he is not Diogenes after all, but Cassandra. He merely cases his doomed prophesies in cynic’s robes, softens them with alcohol until he can no longer feel them burn against his throat when he laughs.

He says none of it. Instead, he motions to Enjolras’s hand, which is still wrapped in his cravat. At least bloodstains don’t show against red, Grantaire thinks. “How is your hand?”

Enjolras seems to remember it for the first time, glancing down and flexing his fingers out with a small wince.

“It’s nothing serious,” he says, fiddling with the end of the makeshift bandage, “there are men with far worse injuries than this.”

“Of course, there are.” Grantaire looks away, pushes a hand through his hair. He feels unsteady, like he and Enjolras are two sides of a scale and if he pushes too hard, he might fall off and lose Enjolras forever.

Enjolras sighs. “It’s fine.”

His voice is suddenly much closer, their shoulders pressed together as Enjolras leans towards him. His injured hand closes around the empty bottle that Grantaire barely noticed he was still holding in his lap, gently prying it out of his fingers and setting it on the floor beside them. “It really is, Grantaire. Haven’t we seen it today already? Together, we are a force to be reckoned with. With everyone here fighting as one, we succeeded.”

_Together. As one._ Grantaire feels the words like a slap and he doesn’t trust himself to speak around the tightness in his throat.

Enjolras studies him for a moment longer, and as hard as Grantaire is trying to hide his panic, something of it must show in his face, or in the way that he can’t seem to keep his hands from shaking, because Enjolras reaches out and touches his arm, slowly tugging him sideways until Grantaire’s head comes to rest against his shoulder.

He smells like action, like gunpowder and sweat and some sort of doomed legacy that makes Grantaire’s breath hitch. Enjolras’s hand moves to rest against his back in response and Grantaire closes his eyes, turns his face into Enjolras’s waistcoat and after a moment, is surprised to realize that from under the half-circle of his arm, the silence isn’t deafening anymore.

He hears small sounds of life filtering in through the cracked windows. Men talk to each other, even laugh occasionally. He hears Enjolras breathing softly next to him, the creak of the floorboards beneath them as he shifts to press himself closer.

“I’m needed outside.” Enjolras murmurs after a few moments, his hand stroking small circles between Grantaire’s shoulders. Neither of them makes any move to leave.

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire whispers, half hoping the words will be lost against Enjolras’s chest. “I said I was with you.”

For a second, Enjolras’s free hand cups the back of his head, his arms tighten once around Grantaire’s shoulders. “I know.”

And then he’s pulling back, his hands gentle against Grantaire’s shoulders as he shifts him back against the wall. Grantaire sits back and wipes a hand across his face. He watches as Enjolras stands and turns to give him one final, searching look.

As he turns away, Grantaire reaches out to retrieve the bottle he’s set aside, brings it to his lips and tips it up to catch the few drops remaining.

He hunkers down to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always lovely! If you want to talk to me about these sad boys (or yell at me for being a terrible writer or something idk) please hit me up on [tumblr](http://williamvapespeare.tumblr.com/)!


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